I hardly know you by sight,
but the scent of wild blossoms,
your finger grazing my hip
beneath my shirt, my balance
shifting like a quarter
resting on the lip of a cup—

I could just say I’m in love with you,
because the metaphor gets it wrong.
Because, for you, the poem
is an artifice as realistic
as two lovers discovering
one another through each sense.

The fly drowned in my 21-year
Scotch could be a symbol
of the danger in approaching
my spent heart—but you
have no use for this method;
and there are times we know
love simply by the rush
of blood to our hands, begging
to share their warmth.